


Second Star to the Right

by Ellen Smithee (ellensmithee)



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Future Fic, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 17:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellensmithee/pseuds/Ellen%20Smithee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damon and Alaric go to a bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Star to the Right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saltzatore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltzatore/gifts).



> This was written for saltzatore on the event of her birthday!

Damon is shocked when Alaric opens the door, but he manages to cover it well. 

“Invite me in?” He gives Alaric the same old charming smile, the one he knows his old friend could never resist.

Alaric narrows his eyes, saying nothing, and for a moment Damon wonders if Alaric is going to tell him to get lost. But then Alaric grins and steps aside, motioning for Damon to go in.

“C’mon in.”

Damon enters the apartment, looking around curiously.

“What happened to your loft?” he asks.

“I sold it years ago,” Alaric says. He holds up a cane. “Couldn’t handle the stairs anymore because of the knee.”

“So you’re a cripple now.”

Alaric snorts. “Basically. Wanna go get a drink?”

“Sure. The Grill?”

"Nah, not the Grill," Alaric scowls. "Matt’s still runnin’ the place, and he’ll tell Jeremy." Alaric rolls his eyes. “Young Dr. Gilbert is a bit of a nag about my drinking. About everything really.”

Damon didn’t point out that “young” Dr. Gilbert was in his 50s at least and recently a grandfather according to Caroline.

"Nagging runs in that family,” he says with a smirk, ignoring the dull ache in his chest at his own words. He thinks for a moment. "I know a place in Charlottesville." 

"Then lead on," Alaric says, his face brightening.

Damon drives them to the small bar on the outskirts of the UVA campus. It’s a dive, but the atmosphere is good. As he orders a couple of glasses of bourbon, Alaric wanders off towards the jukebox. Damon's chest tightens as he watches his friend return to the table, walking slowly with a slight limp from an injury sustained while hunting many years ago, an injury he'd refused to let Damon heal.

"Linkin Park?" Damon says, lifting his glass as Alaric slid into the booth across from him. "You're showing your age, dude. You're making us the laughing stock of the bar."

Alaric shrugs as he takes his glass. He tosses back about the glass of bourbon in one gulp and sets the glass down, motioning to the waitress for more and then leans back in his seat as he looks around.

"You're late," he says finally. His gaze returns to Damon, his eyes solemn. "By about 20 years. You wanna explain that?"

Damon stares at the old man before him. In some ways, the man is a complete stranger, but, in others, he is still Damon’s old, trusted friend.

"I just..." He pauses and licks his lips as he stares off into a corner of the bar. "I lose track of time sometimes," he says finally. "I didn't realize it had been that long. Ever since Stefan..." He stops, his voice trailing off.

"Right," Alaric says. His expressions changes then, softening at the mention of Damon’s brother. At that moment, the waitress passes by and he flags her down. "Bring the bottle, sweetheart, we're gonna need it."

He waits until she’s gone before continuing.

"I thought for sure you'd be back," he says finally. "I could never get rid of you, but this one time, you were nowhere to be found. What’ve you been up to all these years?"

Damon swirls his drink in the tumbler, absently noticing the clinking sound of the ice against the sides of the glass.

“I was in Vegas.” He winks. “And you know what they say: what happens in Vegas—”

“Stays in Vegas,” Alaric finishes. “Fucker.” His tone is more fond than annoyed, though, and Damon finds himself starting to relax. 

They drink companionably as they catch up. Damon notices that Alaric avoids the topics of Stefan and Elena, and that’s fine by him.

“Gotta hit the john,” Alaric says finally, pushing himself to his feet. “If my prostate lets me.” He straightens up and looks down at Damon. “This may take a while. If you finish the bottle, order another.”

Damon feels the panic starting to rise as he notices, really notices, how old Alaric really is. He wants to ask Alaric how bad is it, his knee, his prostate, what else is wrong with him? 

“You know, I could always—” He points towards his wrist, but Alaric just rolls his eyes.

“No,” he growls. “I’m gonna grow old gracefully. Well, as gracefully as you can when you gotta pee every 20 minutes.” He grabs his cane and heads towards the restroom.

Damon watches him leave, poised to go himself. It was a mistake to come, he thinks. Damon doesn’t do this. He doesn’t do goodbyes. He doesn’t hang around and watch them grow old and _die_ … Especially not after what happened to Stefan. 

He’s still there when Alaric returns, walking spryly despite the cane. Alaric sits down and reaches for the bottle, not yet empty, and tops up his glass.

“So, when do you leave?” he asks, giving Damon a sidelong glance. He’s grinning, and his tone is light, but Damon can see the resignation in his eyes.

“Actually, I think I’ll be hanging around for a while,” Damon says.

Alaric looks at him for a long moment, and Damon thinks his old friend is going to cry for a moment. But then Alaric leans back in his chair, looking around the bar.

"This is a good place," he says with a satisfied nod.

"There's a lot of liquor," Damon agrees.

"Amen to that." Alaric raises his glass and Damon follows suit.


End file.
